


One Night, at the Temple of the Kyber

by seaofolives



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Awkward Crush, Crushes, Halloween, M/M, POV Chirrut Îmwe, Pre-Canon, Pre-Movie(s), Pre-Rogue One, Secret Crush, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 13:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12654588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaofolives/pseuds/seaofolives
Summary: Baze and Chirrut listen to a ghost story.





	One Night, at the Temple of the Kyber

A deep silence fell upon the cold, dark hallway, so impenetrable that if he closed his eyes and cut off his connection to the Force, Chirrut swore he could almost feel as if he were the only boy left in the entire galaxy. Even breathing felt like such a violation, he hadn’t caught himself holding his breath. No one shifted, no one stirred. 

Until someone squeaked, and tension melted from the corridor like ice during Jedha’s hotter months. Jek complained and Chirrut heard a smack. Yoma howled only to be shushed so ruthlessly, he might have been a criminal. 

“It’s your fault for hitting Jek.”

“I didn’t hit her!!” he hissed.

Elder Or’eel shushed them all, slowly regaining the circle’s attention. In the midst of shuffling bodies, drawing the ring tighter still, Chirrut felt the warm touch of a familiar hand, rough and big, upon his own. He looked down to it on his knee, and up to the darkness and the vague shadows beside him. He felt Baze tense and saw him turn away as he retrieved his hand in a snap. He knew it wasn’t his imagination either, even though his eyesight had been getting worse ever since the accident and all he could see now where colorful blobs on a good day. Still, he smiled, but did his friend a favor by keeping that to himself. 

With their attention back to where it mattered, Elder Or’eel finally continued her narration. “Slowly,” she said—slowly, “the Jedi Knight, lightsaber burning bright, descended upon the narrow tunnel. The place is old, and the ancient bricks bear the scent of cold and age.” She sniffed deeply, as if she were summoning her imaginations into being. Chirrut could practically feel it in his nose—the sharpness, the mold, the earth. “Each step he makes rings back with a crack! Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack…” She chanted to the beat of cautious footsteps, drawing everyone to the rhythm. 

She stopped, quiet for one second. “And at the bottom of the stairwell, he sees—” 

“Is it the hopping corpse?!” Lami practically shrieked, much to everyone’s furious shushing. Although the better word to describe her would have to be _sobbed_ , Chirrut realized, after she tearfully apologized for her nerves. Baze muttered something to soothe them. 

“Oooh boy,” Too-Kar shuddered beside Chirrut. “I don’t like where this story is going.”

“All is as the Force wills it,” Chirrut preached faithfully, as though they weren’t just listening to another one of Elder Or’eel’s ghost stories in the middle of a long, empty space with high ceilings that have surely seen much more than he could imagine, the Temple of the Kyber being a relic of the past itself. “I’m sure the Force will not abandon him.” But this was a ghost story, and even Chirrut could not deny that. He knew where these stories came from, what they were. He knew, too, that the Force was full of unsolved mysteries.

The air around him felt rigid—with bated breaths, and a chill that entered the pores and bit his bones. Elder Or’eel laughed, but with the echoes and the natural acoustics of the walls, it sounded like a cackle. Chirrut froze, shifting closer to the man beside him—

Only for Baze to shove back; that was his personal space right there. Irritation sparked in Chirrut’s bosoms as he retaliated—if Baze didn’t like him in his personal space, then what was with all the handholding?!—and Baze responded in equal measures, resulting in a minor scuffle of hands hitting and blocking hands. The circle hissed at them to behave. Both boys withdrew from each other to sulk. This was a dance they knew only too well, though. Baze was the master of it—of denying himself his voice, his feelings even when the two friends were alone and Chirrut, well…is it cruel to say that he enjoyed to see how much his friend struggled for his sake? How it flattered him to see how much he meant to Baze, perhaps so much that he was willing to tear down his own boundaries for his sake. Chirrut would wait, though—he didn’t want to step through Baze’s borders until he was ready. And really, he was just saying that because it made him sound kind and considerate. 

“At the bottom of the stairwell, he sees a door,” Elder Or’eel finally continued, much to the relief of the circle of young future guardians and disciples. “And with the power of the Force,” she swept her arm—or what he imagined it to be in Chirrut’s eyes—over the air, “he pushes it open, to reveal…”

They gasped. 

“An empty room, large but very dark,” Elder Or’eel’s voice fell just a notch softer to a loud whisper. “There are no walls, no ceiling…he reaches out to the Force…but finds no one.”

Ultimately, it was that that made Chirrut shudder. How could anyone be so disconnected from the Force, from that of others to find nothing?! 

“He cannot see where he is going, the blue light of his lightsaber can only illuminate so much.” Elder Or’eel moved her arm again. “When he sweeps it to the floor, he sees only his robe, his feet, and the ancient rocks beneath them—” She gasped all of a sudden, and someone cried while others shifted around them. This time, Baze grabbed Chirrut’s hand again, as if tensing to run. 

“What’s this?” Elder Or’eel hissed, picking up something Chirrut couldn’t see, as though it was air. “From the light of his saber, he sees—” She made a noise, dropping that imaginary thing to scramble backwards, much to the children’s rising fear and discontent, all of them wriggling away from her, as well. “It’s a talisman! Force preserve him, it’s a talisman. Torn straight out of the face of a corpse! The Jedi Knight is strong and brave and faithful but even his heart knows fear. If the talisman has been torn off, then this could only mean…!”

“The hopping corpse has come alive!” a girl shrieked, jutting out her arms with her claws out at the boy next to her who yelped and fell back at her attack. Everyone else let out their own cries of surprise. 

Baze snarled, tugging Chirrut towards him. 

“He sweeps his lightsaber over the walls,” Elder Or’eel made the motion, drawing all their attention to her again. “And he sees that it is full of claw marks but from the monster or its victims, who can tell? He goes to investigate, when suddenly—”

Something slammed against the floor between them, and everyone screamed. 

“The Jedi Knight sweeps his lightsaber to the door and—” Elder Or’eel stopped, staring, agape at the space over Chirrut’s head. Chirrut gulped. “It has closed.” Someone else started to cry. “It has closed. There is no escape!” She looked frantically about her. “He must get out of here. He must get out! He draws the Force to him again and facing the door, he—!!”

Something crashed and echoed throughout the hallway, consuming the silence with a monstrous roar—or at least that was how it sounded to Chirrut but by then, it was already too late. Every single one of them had screamed and scrambled up to their feet and run off to various directions, with Elder Or’eel crying, “It’s the hopping corpse!! It’s come back from the dead! Run, run, run for your lives!!”

Chirrut didn’t know how long he had been running—only that he had been at it for so long, he was surprised to be surrounded again by a profound silence, and one that he didn’t recognize. He tensed, grasping his walking stick tightly to his chest as he whirled around, trying to figure out his location but to no luck. He was practically blind now—couldn’t even see enough to catch the shadows shifting. All around him was just…darkness, deeper than ink, as black as the galaxy without stars itself. He gulped, and tried to control his breathing. _I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me, I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me…!_ he chanted. 

Slowly, he moved his feet, first one then the other, sliding them carefully over the floor in the absence of his walking stick which was now raised high in attack position. His prayer still echoed in his head as he turned first left, then right as if his eyes were doing him any good. He held his breath, throwing out his senses to the Force around him, seeking out a living thing, _any_ living thing he could connect to—

A hand fell on his shoulder and he screamed, spun, and smacked his stick at the tormentor behind him. 

“ _Ow_ , what the—Chirrut, it’s me!” 

“Baze?” Chirrut gasped feebly, staring. 

“Yes, Baze! Why did you—” _Tonk!_ “Ow, stop hitting me!!” 

Chirrut winced, sliding back as he whispered an apology. He could imagine Baze glaring at him now, trying to bury him 16 feet underground right then and there. “W, what are you doing here?” 

“What am I doing here? I was looking for you!! Why did you run away from me?” 

“I didn’t!” 

“I held you in my hand, you pulled yourself free!” Baze snarled. “Do you realize how scared I was when you were gone?!” 

“You were scared?” 

“Worried! I said worried, you deaf.” Baze grumbled. “What was I supposed to think? You could be bouncing onto walls again.”

Chirrut gulped. Well, he wasn’t. Yet. 

Baze cleared his throat. “W, well, if you’re done being frightened like a kitten, we can—” 

The slam of a door burst out and they were running, Baze’s hand wrapped fiercely around Chirrut’s as they darted down corners, wound through surprise pathways, their slippered feet clapping frantically on the solid floor. 

When Chirrut stumbled into Baze’s bedroom, he threw his staff aside and grabbed immediately for the nightstand between Baze and his absent roommate. With the older boy’s help, they parked it by the door—and trapped it with everything else they could get their hands on. Chairs, books, chests, a lamp.

Both boys scrambled away from view, Chirrut taking the empty bed across of Baze who threw his blanket over him. He stared at his friend wildly, the shape of him curled tight, practically paralyzed. 

He’d barely settled at all in that strange bed before another distant slam echoed and Chirrut was flying towards Baze’s open arms that took him in, pulling him to his chest. Something cried beyond their windows. Chirrut buried his face on Baze’s front, squeezing him tighter, squeezing himself _in_ tighter. He closed his eyes, heard another crash but he could no longer distinguish it between reality and his imagination. About the only thing he was sure of now was the warmth of Baze’s arms around him, the strength of his embrace, the comfort of his scent in Chirrut’s nose. Years will come and temples will fall, and whenever Chirrut will need the comfort of Baze’s arms, his presence, it would be because of this. Because on the night that he thought he would finally die, as young melodramatic teens were wont to, Baze was there to protect him from death. 

He didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep, or how it had happened or how long he had slept for. Only that when he opened his eyes, the room looked brighter, and he was still surrounded by Baze’s arms. He wished he could stay in there a little longer, just to listen to his heart beating, his little purrs as he snored.

But Baze had always been a light sleeper. When he woke up and realized that he and Chirrut had spent the night squeezed into one bed, he started and shuffled back, tensing for a second before he melted into his bed again, perhaps having remembered the night before. 

“Good morning.” Chirrut grinned. “Thanks for protecting me.”

Baze shrugged. “I figured I ought to look out for the only friend I have.” It was his favorite alibi. 

They got up soon after, sorted out Baze’s room and said goodbye, hands lingering when Baze proposed a formal handshake. Like an idiot. 

They met again at the great hall for breakfast, like a pair of brothers who’d never been scared into emotional vulnerability the previous night even though it was all anyone could talk about. The screaming, the running, the slamming. Many of them weren’t there when it happened but rumors of ghost hauntings and the dead coming for the living were always quick to spread like wildfire,especially if one lived in a centuries-old temple. 

Baze and Chirrut felt as if they were bound by a sacred oath not to speak of the truth, strangely silent as they took their place among friends who shared gossips and wild stories about last night’s mysterious visitor. 

“Hopping corpses aren’t real!” one of them insisted, hissing. 

“They _are_ ,” another snarled. “The Elders only lie to us and say they aren’t real because we can’t use the Force against them. They _live_ through the Force of others. They practically suck that thing off our nostrils, that’s why we must always hold our breaths when we’re passing through an empty corridor in the dark!”

“This is not what I wanted to talk about over breakfast,” another groaned. 

“You just made that up,” the first snorted. She turned to Chirrut suddenly, frowning, her arms crossed. “What do you make of all this, Chirrut?” 

Cup of tea raised near parted lips, Chirrut stared dumbly at the absent eyes looking back at him. “U, umm…” Suddenly, his mouth felt dry be put down his tiny cup before he spilled his tea and adjusted his robes as he cleared his throat. “You do not want to know what I think,” he tried. He had to preserve the secret of last night! He looked towards Baze for help. 

But Baze only shrugged and grunted, muttering haughtily, “Why are you looking at me? I wasn’t the one who faced them.” The whole table gasped. 

Chirrut would never have expected this to come from Baze who was always so honest and lacked a great deal of imagination, but he could tell that it was too good an opportunity to pass up on, perhaps a beat too late after Baze had first realized it. They would never be able to keep quiet about what happened last night—the screaming, the running—but that didn’t mean they had to tell the truth about how they’d been scared out of their bones by a ghost story. 

“All right,” he sighed after a calculated pause, looking seriously first at his untouched dish and then at the blurred faces around him. “But you _must_ promise to keep this a secret and you _must_ listen closely—for I will only share this once.”

**Author's Note:**

> I really love hopping corpses which are yes, a real thing from China! As real as ghost stories and shady accounts are, that is. So there's your inspiration.


End file.
